


electric buzz beneath the skin

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Mild Hurt/Comfort, is there a tag for like. gender troubles. because that lowkey applies lol, socialbreachfest2020, this was written for a fest about touch so you can bet your ass it’s got touch starvation, touch starved gays? yes.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24001327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann, Newt, and touch—before and after the Drift
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33
Collections: Social Breachfest 2020- Collected Fics





	electric buzz beneath the skin

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello i am back on my bullshit with he/him lesbian hermann and he/him masc bi newt. this is 110% self indulgent. enjoy.

Shatterdome Hong Kong is not a very nice place; originally created for the military, since the first kaiju attack, it’s been haphazardly transformed into a shatterdome, but it lacks many of the amenities of other shatterdomes—few elevators, steep stairwells, and bad insulation in personal quarters, to say the least. Hermann would not say he’s terribly fond of it—in fact, the Hong Kong shatterdome is his least favourite one so far. However, all of the previously mentioned issues _pale_ in comparison the major issue: one _Newton Geiszler_ , holder of an unreasonable number of doctorates. 

“Hey, Hermann!” Newton calls, and reaches out to clap a hand on Hermann’s shoulder. “Long time no see, dude!”

Hermann flinches, instinctively, away from the touch; fixes a firm, professional expression on his face. “Dr. Geiszler,” he says, “we saw each other two days ago when you came into Dr. Kaufman and I’s shared office to ask about the time-frame of the next kaiju attack. Please refrain from touching me—I do not know where your hands have been.”

“They’re _clean!_ ” Newton protests, but draws them back; and then waves them as if to emphasise the point. “See—no K-blue, no dirt, no _grease_.” That, in fact, appears to be true, through some miracle—for once, Newton’s hands are not covered in smears of grease, neutralised Kaiju Blue, or paint. 

“Still,” Hermann says; and rubs the head of his cane with his thumb—a nervous habit, and one that broadcasts his nervousness, which isn’t particularly a good thing, but he’s yet to find something else he can do in place of it. “Now, Dr. Geiszler, is there something you wanted, or are you just intent on blocking me from getting to the lab?”

Newton huffs, crossing his arms, but moves to the side, letting Hermann move forward, and falls in step by his side. “Dunno why you won’t just call me _Newt_ ,” he mutters, “everyone does, ‘cept Pentecost, but, like, I get _that_. We’ve known each other a decade now, man.”

The hall narrows, and Hermann presses himself against the wall rather than risk brushing against the other. “ _Newt_ would imply a...level of _closeness_ ,” he says, delicately, and hopes that Newton gets what he means, because he doesn’t particularly want to have to spell it out. 

Newton’s lips purse, the normal bright pink disappearing; and, for a moment, his expression is... _forlorn,_ almost; but then it’s gone, and Hermann figures he must have imagined it. “Fine,” Newton says, sighing dramatically, “have it your way, Hermeister.”

“One wonders how you ever managed to get to the point you’re at right now,” Hermann grumbles. They’ve come to the laboratory doors, now, and Hermann unlocks them, and braces his good side against one of them, pushing it open. The door creaks, resisting for a moment—it is, as Newton has pointed out, multiple times, _a rusty piece of shit_ —, but it finally gives, and opens enough for them to enter. 

Unfortunately, Newton judges the space as large enough for two people to get through at once, and pushes foward; hand brushing Hermann’s as he passes. Hermann nearly jumps out of his skin at the contact—Newton’s hand is warm, and calloused, but really, it’s just the _shock_ of it. People don’t touch him, so he’s gotten used to a lack of it—but Newton’s skin against his has left his mind abuzz, as if someone lit a match and set tinder ablaze. His mouth is cottony, and he barely catches himself before falling over.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Newton hisses, turning around, wide-eyed, hands reaching out to try and steady Hermann, “fuck, dude, did I—I thought there was enough space for the both of us, but I...I must have misjudged it. I’m sorry—you okay?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Hermann hisses, probably more sharply than necessary, and bats the other’s hands away as best as he can without actually making _contact_. “Don’t—”

But it’s too late; Newton’s hands are on his lapels, brushing over his shoulders; and, against his will, Hermann finds himself melting into the touch; letting out a soft, shuddering breath. Even through the fabric of his blazer, Hermann can feel the shape of Newton’s hands perfectly, and his eyes flutter shut.

With a painful suddenness, he realises _exactly_ what this is, and lets out a yelp; pushes Newton’s hands off. “Don’t,” he says, and curses how his voice cracks.

Newton blinks at him, wide-eyed. “What?” he asks, “dude, all I did was try and apologise, and then you freaked out—”

“I _told_ you not to lay your—your _filthy_ little hands on me earlier!” Hermann cries; his voice rising embarrassingly, and, were it not for his panic, he would be furious with himself; but right now, he’s just shaking with—with humiliation. Newton _must_ have seen his response—he _must_ have.

“Sorry,” Newton says. “I just—wanted to make sure you were okay, man.”

And yet, here he is, looking at Hermann as if he _doesn’t_ ; and that, almost, makes it worse—Hermann would rather he out and out mock him rather than merely pretend to—to _care_ about Hermann. It reminds him too much of years earlier, of believing that Newton was his...his _best friend_ , maybe _more_. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he hisses; biting back the tears that spring to his eyes at the memory of—of _that_ . “Get to your own side, Geiszler, I have work to do, and I don’t need you—you _distracting_ me.”

Newton raises his hands. “Alright, alright, I’m getting going,” he says. “Sorry, man, seriously.” With that, he mercifully backs off to his own side of the lab; letting Hermann move to his desk. 

He lowers himself into his chair; leans his cane up against his desk and takes a moment to breathe; presses his hands against the cold, hard wood surface for a moment, letting it ground him. After a few moments, his head is clearer, thoughts no longer racing around like terrified rabbits. 

Hermann glances over to where Newton’s busied himself with his samples, and, seeing that he’s missing the usual pep in his step, feels a slight pang of guilt. Maybe he was a bit too harsh with him...but even so, he can’t very well go _apologise—_ that would be tantamount to placing all of his cards on the table, and he’s already almost dropped them today. He sighs and resolves to, at least, not shout at Newton for his musical tastes the rest of the day, and to be a bit more kind in future—and, keyly, to put the earlier incident out of his mind.

For the rest of the day, though, as he works, he can feel the phantom sensation of Newton’s hands on his shoulders.

* * *

Ten years ago, Hermann Gottlieb receives his first letter from Newton Geiszler, then only a holder of two doctorates. In Geiszler, Hermann—then only in his twenties, and still trying to find his footing with his own self, lesbianism and masculinity both—found himself someone like him; someone too smart, sometimes, for his own good; who doesn’t know how to stop and slow down.

Two years after the first letter arrives, Geiszler mails him a polaroid, like it’s the eighties, or something. Hermann smiles sappily at it and pins it to the corkboard over his desk, and forgets to take it back down. Karla comes over a few days later while she’s in the city, and takes one look at the photo and smirks. “You got a pretty little lady hidden away from us?” she teases. “Must be something special if you’re putting her photos up.”

His first instinct is to point out that Newton is not a _pretty little lady_ but rather a _gorgeous_ one, or, if Newton were to choose the words, _a sexy lady_ ; but he catches himself, and doesn’t make that embarrassing slip. “His name is Newton, and he’s not my _anything_ ,” Hermann snaps, but his blush has already given him away; and Karla’s thrown back her head, letting out the deep, rich laugh that reminds Hermann of being a young girl in their home, curled up by Karla’s side; of safety. 

“Mhm,” Karla says; her eyes twinkling, “you _wish_ he was, though.”

“...that’s none of your business,” Hermann says, and refuses to meet his sister’s gaze.

Karla laughs, again; and then says, “Come here, Hermann,” and draws him into a tight hug.

Ten years later, Hermann sits in Newton Geiszler’s squeaking, paint-splattered, Kaiju Blue-stained chair on the xenobiologist’s side of the lab, pressing a half-melted icepack to his head. Technically, he doesn’t need it, but Newton’s insisted—which is, in and of itself, a _riot_ , as Newton would say, given the other has Drifted _twice_ but refuses to stop drinking the can of energy drink that he dug out of some cupboard.

“I’ve been saving it,” he says, dragging the chair from Hermann’s desk over to sit by his side. “Put it back there, uh, in...’21? ’21, I think, anyway, I’ve been, um, I’ve been saving it.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” Hermann says, and pulls the icepack away from his head for a moment before wincing and pressing it back, because it was, at least, numbing the headache he’s developed somewhat. “You were saving it for when we won the war. I was in your head, remember?”

Newton snorts. “Couldn’t fucking forget it if I tried, bud,” he says. “Something about Drifting is, like, _memorable_.”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “I wonder _why_ ,” he says, drily; and slumps, for a moment, before hissing. 

Newton’s head snaps up. “You okay, Herms?” he asks; but his hands stay at his sides; and Hermann mourns that, for a moment more than he really should; because, _God_ , he wants Newton to touch him—always has—but the Drift has intensified that hunger. 

Hermann nods, after a moment; the barest incline of his head. “Yes, just—ribs are a bit...sore.”

“Oh,” Newton says; and then: “oh, _wait_ , you mean like—damnit, man, how long have you had it on? And you’ve been running around from the observation deck and down the halls and shit—how many hours, Hermann?”

Hermann drops his gaze to the floor. “I...may or may not have forgotten to take it off before I passed out last night,” he admits; which he knows, he _knows_ is a bad idea, of _course_ it’s a bad idea, but he had been so exhausted, and it had flown his mind.

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newton hisses, and rises from his chair. “Alright, dude, we’re getting you back to your room, and then I’m going to make sure you take it off and put on something loose get into _bed_ because you _need_ sleep.”

“...fine,” Hermann says. “As much as I hate to admit it, you are... _correct_.”

Newton gasps. “Doth mine own ears decieve me?” he says, “I could have _sworn_ you said I was _right—_ do you have a fever?”

“Oh, don’t stretch it,” Hermann grumbles; and levers himself up out of the chair, and grabs his cane; sets the icepack down. The headache has abated to manageable levels, now, and the idea of walking around with it held up to his forehead isn’t an appealing one. 

Newton hums, and takes a swig from the can, and, when Hermann wrinkles his nose, smacks his lips obnoxiously and takes an even bigger gulp. “‘S good,” he says.

“The _last_ thing you need is _that_ monstrosity,” Hermann huffs, “for your own good, I’d advise you throw it away. Actually—I’m not taking another step towards my quarters until it’s in the rubbish bin.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Doctor Gottlieb,” Newton drawls, and tosses the can into the rubbish bin. “Alright, pitter patter, let’s get atter.”

With that grand statement, they begin the trek down the hallway to Hermann’s quarters. Though they ought to, by all rights, at least _brush against_ each other at numerous points, they always manage to avoid it by a hair’s breadth, much to Hermann’s disappointment.

“Alright,” Newton says, when they get to the door, “you gotta unlock it for me, bud.”

“The key’s in the pocket of my blazer,” Hermann says, leaning up against the wall for a moment, and closes his eyes, briefly. 

There’s a silence. “Yeah, but...that’s, uh. That’s on you,” Newton points out, after a moment; awkward; and, finally, Hermann snaps.

“Yes, Newton, it _is,_ ” he says, “I’d almost say you didn’t want to touch me, but that’s never been an issue—you’re infuriatingly tactile. So what is it? Spit it out, Newton.”

“ _Me_ not wanting to touch _you?_ ” Newton says; obviously bewildred. “No, dude, I was just—ugh, trying to...uh, so, the. The Drift, right. Um, I sort of got like...your feelings, you know, which includes how you felt all of the times I accidentally touched you—all, um, all hot and uncomfortable beneath your ribs. Obviously, you _really_ hate it when I touch you.”

Hermann lets out a deep sigh. “Just take the keys,” he says, tiredly. “Just—do it, Newton. I’ll explain when we’re inside—this isn’t a conversation I want to become part of the rumour mill.”

Newton is silent; and then, after a moment, nods hesitantly, and darts forward to grab the keys and open the door. Hermann huffs a quiet thanks and enters, with Newton following at his heels. “I’m going to sit,” he says, “I need...I need to sit. Feel free to stand.”

“No, no, I’ll—yeah, um. I’ll sit too,” Newton says; and settles down onto the floor. Hermann sits on the edge of his bed, Newton’s expectant gaze heavy on him.

He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for it; and then says, “Newton, I...what you were feeling, that wasn’t—that wasn’t... _hate_.”

“Then what _was_ it?” Newton asks. “Because it seemed pretty fucking uncomfortable.”

“I—” Hermann swallows thickly. “I do not...come from a terribly tactile family, my sister Karla being the exception. Over the years, especially since I joined the Jaeger Program, I have...ah, acquired a _deficit_ , if you will, of human contact, and as such, receiving it is...well. Like _that_.”

Newton blinks. “You’re... _touch starved?_ ” he says; the words coming slow and gentle; and Hermann, after a moment, nods.

“I suppose you could call it that,” he says. “I...well. Yes. And I...you see, Newton, I...I wanted, _want_ you to...to initiate physical contact with me, ah. Very much.” He cringes slightly as he says it—his voice rising at odd moments when he doesn’t mean it to; but Newton’s not laughing at him, so he carries on. “That...that intensified the feeling, I’m afraid.”

With that, he lets out a sigh, and lowers his gaze.

“You...should probably take the binder off,” Newton says, finally. “I can, um. I can _kind_ of feel the discomfort through the Ghost Drift, and, like, I’ve also been there and done that myself, so. Yeah. Not fun. Also, like, _bad_ for you.”

“Lovely response,” Hermann snaps; and curls in on himself a bit.

Newton sputters. “Wha—no, dude, uh. Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean—ugh. I’m so bad at this. Sorry. Um. Are you...are you kind of saying you’re into me? Because if so, holy shit, dude, _sweet_ —you would not believe how incredibly reciprocated the feeling is, like, christ, dude, I’ve always said a woman can dream, but like, I never thought it would, uh, _come to fruition._ ”

Hermann blinks at him slowly; exhaustion-addled brain taking a moment to process it, and then he lets out a soft, wondering laugh. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I—very much. Get over here, Newton. For physical contact,” he clarifies.

Newton huffs. “Not until you get that binder off,” he says. “I meant it, dude, I _remember_ pulling all-nighters to write papers and forgetting to take mine off and feeling _really_ awful ‘cause of it.”

“Oh, alright,” Hermann grumbles, and shrugs off his blazer, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt for a few moments before he manages to get them open. “Could you at least get my night clothes from my dresser?”

“Course,” Newton says, and rises to get them, letting Hermann pull off the black binder and pull his shirt back on. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Hermann says, and trades his regular shirt for his nightshirt and then, after a few moments, his trousers for the loose-fitting pair of sweatpants. “Er—I think there’s a shirt and pair of sweatpants that should fit you, if...if you’d like.”

“Aw, suggesting I stay the night? _Someone_ is bold tonight,” Newton teases.

“Well, if you’d rather _not—_ ” 

Newton’s already pulling off his shirt and the sports bra beneath it—Hermann gets a quick flash of him changing into it, hours before, just before he went on his chase for Chau—, though, rooting through Hermann’s drawers and coming up with a hooded pullover and a pair of sweatpants; “Nope, shut up and scoot over, Herms, I’m gonna come cuddle the shit out of you as soon as soon as I’m not wearing skinny jeans.”

“Mmm,” Hermann says, and sets his cane down on the floor next to where he’s folded his clothes. He’ll put them away tomorrow, but right now, the prospect of curling under the duvet is too good to pass up. He does just that, and, a few moments later, Newton joins him. 

“This okay?” he asks, turned on his side to face Hermann, and reaches out, pressing a hand to Hermann’s cheek. For a moment, Hermann’s head pounds as his thoughts race faster than light, trying to process the foreign sensation.

Hermann lets out a soft breath, revelling in the warmth; and murmurs, “Yes, I...yes. Very much. _More_ than.”

“Alright,” Newton murmurs, “uh, d’you mind if I kiss you? Just a little bit, I’m tired, and I know you are too, but...I’d really like to. If you want, I mean.”

“Yes, I...I would,” Hermann says; and smiles, a bit, when Newton does; which isn’t exactly conducive, but it’s a sleepy kiss, more of a soft press of lips than anything else.

“G’night,” Newton says, when he pulls away.

“Good night,” Hermann replies, and reaches out to slip his hand into Newton’s; falls asleep with a pleasant buzz under his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
